“Oh, dear,” murmured Amy.
“Didn’t mean to cause you grief, Miss Wilkes,” Charlie told her, fearing she was one of those city girls who couldn’t tolerate violence even if it was perpetrated for their sake.
Her eyes were as big as saucers and as blue as the sky when she looked up at him. “Oh, no, Mr. Fox! Please don’t think anything of it. I’m glad you hit him.” She sounded quite fierce, and Charlie wondered if she’d have hit Huxtable herself after a few more of his nasty comments. Maybe she had more spunk than he’d given her credit for.
Martin muttered, “This is going to slow things down. We’ll have to wait to do any camera work until that jaw goes down.” He rubbed his chin and thought hard. “Maybe we can shoot him from the right side.”
“You can shoot him in the head, for all I care,” Amy said, and Martin looked alarmed.
Yes, she definitely had more spunk than Charlie had originally believed.
“I’m very sorry, Miss Wilkes. I know Huxtable can be a terrible tease.”
“He’s more than a tease,” she said with energy. “He’s a vulgar, licentious reprobate.”
Martin sighed deeply. “I’m afraid you may be right. I don’t know why Lovejoy wanted him for this picture.”
“If he talks to Miss Wilkes like that again, I’ll do the same thing,” Charlie said, keeping his tone mild. “I’m sorry, Martin, but there it is.” He wanted Martin to know what was what. Maybe Martin could talk some sense into Huxtable, although it seemed unlikely. Huxtable’s ego was huge, and his head seemed hard and impenetrable.
Charlie was both pleased and surprised when Amy laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, Mr. Fox, please don’t. It’s partly my fault for reacting to his taunts. I’m sure that’s what he wants. I should have ignored him. He’s such a … pig.”
“He is that.” Charlie liked the feel of her hand on his arm. Unfortunately, she didn’t leave it there.
“You’re very understanding, Miss Wilkes,” Martin told her with a smile that looked as if it were nine-tenths relief. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“I don’t know about this.” Charlie didn’t care for the turn the conversation was taking. “It ain’t right for a fellow to talk to a lady the way Mr. Huxtable talked to Miss Wilkes.”
“I know it’s not,” said Martin.
Amy nodded. “Yes, but you see, I don’t think there’s any changing Mr. Huxtable. He was a beast at my uncle’s health spa, and he’s a beast here. I think he’s simply a beast, and there’s no doing anything with him.”
“I did something with him,” Charlie pointed out, beginning to feel slightly peeved.
“Yes, you did.” Amy beamed up at him, making him light-headed for a second. “And I truly do appreciate it. But you really can’t continue to hit him every time he says something awful, because the only time he isn’t saying awful things is when he’s asleep. If you hit him all the time, we’ll never get this picture made.”
“Exactly!” Martin looked happy with her sensible attitude.
“I don’t know. I don’t like it.” Charlie kicked at the dirt, beginning to get the uncomfortable idea that he’d done something silly. Only a moment before, he’d been feeling kind of heroic. Ding-bust-it, females and movies were a purely baffling combination. He’d enjoyed watching both individually in the past, but dealing with them in person and together was another matter entirely.
“Believe me,” said Amy, “I don’t like it when he’s rude and awful to me. It’s humiliating to be baited by such a man. And he deserves to be hit for being such a swine. But the sooner we get this picture over and done with, the sooner we can all go home again.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Martin, again with clear appreciation of Amy’s good sense. “For the time being, why don’t we take a break from rehearsal. I’m sure everyone’s nerves need to settle a bit. I’ll go see how the costumes are coming. They might be ready for your first fitting, Miss Wilkes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tafft.” She gazed at Charlie. “And thank you, Mr. Fox. It’s nice to know that not all men are like that … that … awful Mr. Huxtable.”
“Sure thing, ma’am.”
Charlie peered down at her, noticing all over again how pretty she was, how her hair glinted with red and gold highlights in the sunlight, how big her blue eyes were, how fresh her complexion, how elegant her figure. She was quite a package. Some of the boys on the ranch might even call her a dish. Charlie would never do anything so disrespectful, but he was beginning to like her better than he had at first. Maybe he’d been a little hard on her, even. Just because a person had never drunk coffee was no reason to—
“Oh, my goodness!”
At Amy’s sharp cry, he jerked his head up so fast he all but broke his neck. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He was ready, whatever it was. He didn’t have a gun, but he could heave a knife as well as anybody in Arizona Territory. He scanned the scene, from right to left and back again, searching for whatever it was that had alarmed her. From the tone of her voice, he expected to see anything from a rattlesnake to a rabid polecat to Horace Huxtable with a gun.
Her voice had sunk to a whisper when she spoke again, and she’d pressed a palm to a cheek that had suddenly gone as white as a snowdrift. “Is that woman actually”—she inhaled a big breath—“smoking?”
Charlie blinked at her, then blinked into the distance. A young woman stood outside one of the crew tents. And, yes, she was smoking a cigarette. The way Miss Wilkes had said it, he’d thought the girl had caught fire, at least.
“I think so,” he said, not sure what she expected him to say—or what she expected him to do about it. While he was as happy as a lark to belt Horace Huxtable for making improper suggestions to a female member of the cast, he sure as heck wasn’t going to punch that lady for smoking.
“My goodness.”
When he peered at Amy again, he saw that her cheeks remained pale, and that the expression of horror he’d thought he’d imagined, he hadn’t. It was there; no doubt about it.
All righty, then, Charlie presumed that folks in Pasadena, California, didn’t cotton to females smoking. He didn’t either, really, although his grounds weren’t moral—as he felt sure Amy’s were—but protective. It was dang dry in the Arizona desert, and smoldering cigarette butts had set off more than one wildfire.
Curious, he asked, “You got something against folks smoking, Miss Wilkes?” He tried to keep his tone friendly.
Her head jerked up and she stared at him for a moment. Charlie all but got lost in those big, limpid pools of blue. Then her gaze fell, and the pink returned to her cheeks. “I suppose,” she said tightly, “that you think I’m an unconscionable snob for being shocked to see a woman smoking a cigarette.”
Well, yeah, kinda. Charlie said, “Er, I don’t know about that, ma’am. Just wondered why you cared, is all. I’m sort of a live-and-let-live kind of feller, myself.”
She made a clicking noise with her tongue, and Charlie thought he glimpsed the ragged edge of her frustration. With a gesture of her hand, she said, “Oh, I don’t care. Exactly. Not really. But….” She tilted her head and stared up at him some more.
Charlie had to swallow an oath. He wished she wouldn’t do that. It made him prey to all sorts of impulses he was sure she’d just hate, and which made him feel sort of like Horace Huxtable, which was an awful way to feel.
“But this is all so new to me, Mr. Fox. I know you think I’m a straitlaced priss, but I’ve … well, I suppose I’ve been sheltered in my life.”
Since he didn’t know what to say to that, and sensing she wouldn’t appreciate agreement, Charlie kept mum.
She went on with a choppy wave of her arm that spoke eloquently of the state of her nerves. “Since I was seven years old, I’ve never been anywhere but Pasadena or done anything but what … well, what people in Pasadena do. And all of us at home do the same things—and none of us do anything I’m being expected to do in this picture. A woman in Pasadena wouldn’t be caught dead smoking or drinki
ng.” She hung her head. “I suppose you think that’s intolerably stodgy.”
Charlie, who had been appreciating the way Miss Wilkes’s lithe body moved and the way her rosebud mouth tilted at the corners, pried his mind away from baser matters and thought about it for a minute. When he answered, he told the truth. “Well, ma’am, I don’t rightly think it’s stodgy. It’s … well, it’s kinda irritating when someone keeps exclaiming about what other folks do. It’s not as if anybody asked for your opinion or anything.”
The pink in her cheeks deepened significantly. “Oh, dear, you must dislike me intensely, Mr. Fox.”
“Good God, no! I don’t dislike you at all.” Her little rosebud mouth quivered, and Charlie went all gooey inside.
Amy hung her head. “Thank you for saying that, even if you don’t really mean it. I honestly didn’t mean to give you the impression that I disapprove of everything everybody who doesn’t live in Pasadena does. It’s only that this is all so new to me.”
“I understand,” Charlie said, nodding. And he did. Sort of.
The poor thing looked as if she were suffering acute humiliation, and Charlie hadn’t meant her to. He was shuffling through the rubbish heap in his brain, trying to dust off some words that might both soothe her and keep her from slapping his face, when Martin’s voice came to them. Reprieve, thank God! Charlie turned with a real, live, honest-to-God happy smile. “Well, howdy, Martin. How’re things?”
Martin eyed him as if he wondered if Charlie, too, had taken to drink, and Charlie realized that Martin had only left Amy and him five minutes before. He broadened his smile to show that he was in full possession of his senses.
He wasn’t, though. Staring into Amy Wilkes’s eyes had done something serious to his senses, although Charlie wasn’t sure what it was. They were heaving and spluttering like crazy, though, and making him wonder if he’d taken sick.
She, too, appeared comforted to have Martin interrupt what she evidently considered the scene of her embarrassment. She shot one last glance at the cigarette-smoking woman over by the crew’s tent. Charlie thought he detected a little reproach—and a whole lot of bewilderment—in her expression.
Her smile for Martin Tafft was a winner, though. Charlie wouldn’t mind her tossing a couple of those smiles his way. Not that she would, since she thought he was lower than snake spit—and she thought he thought she was, too. It was tough maintaining his smile with that notion rattling around in his brain pan.
“Miss Wilkes!” Martin called while he was still several yards off. “The costumes are ready for your first fitting, and I think they’ll be wonderful.”
“Thank you. That sounds like a nice—er—thing to do.”
What it sounded like to Charlie was that she was guarding her tongue to within an inch of its life and was trying like thunder not to allow another spontaneous comment past her lips. Charlie wished he’d kept his danged mouth shut earlier. He kind of enjoyed hearing about all the things that perturbed her and made her ever-so-dainty feelings recoil. A body couldn’t haul back his spoken words like he could a runaway calf, though. Fine time to remember that, he thought glumly.
Martin shook Charlie’s hand when they were close enough to reach each other. Charlie wasn’t used to shaking hands every single time he came across a fellow he worked with, but guessed he could stand it.
“Let me show you to the fitting tent,” Martin said to Amy. “It’ll probably be lunchtime when you’re through there. When the bell rings, why don’t I drop by and walk you to the chow tent?”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Tafft.”
Turning to Charlie, Martin said, “Why don’t you—ah—study your script or something, Charlie? We’ll have another rehearsal after lunch, since this morning’s was—er—shortened unexpectedly.”
If that wasn’t a polite way of putting it, Charlie didn’t know what was. He said, “Sure think, Martin. Will do.”
And as he watched Martin and Amy walk away, Charlie noticed that they constraint Amy exhibited when she was in his own vicinity had slipped away. He frowned. She was cozy as kittens with Martin Tafft. With Charlie Fox, she was like a frozen millpond. He figured it was because he’d teased her a wee tiny bit when they’d first met.
And maybe he’d hinted that she might be a drop too fussy.
Oh, all right, and he supposed he’d treated her as if he thought she was a stuffy prig.
Aw, hell, what he’d done was make her feel like a pile of horse poop. He heard his uncle Bill, clear as a bell, telling him, “Never miss the chance to keep mum, Charlie.”
Uncle Bill, as usual, was right. Charlie hadn’t kept mum when he’d had the chance, and he’d managed to hurt Miss Wilkes’s feelings. Shoot.
As he shoved his hands into his pockets, hunched up his shoulders, and headed to his tent, another one of his uncle Bill’s favorite sayings tiptoed into his head. “There’s two ways to deal with women, Charlie, and don’t neither one of ‘em work.”
Charlie could almost hear his Aunt Bess’s hollered reaction to Bill’s words from the kitchen of their ranch house.
He had a feeling Uncle Bill was right. Damn it.
Five
Amy felt pretty awful by the time she and Martin arrived at the tent where the costume fittings were to be done. That wretched Charlie Fox always seemed to make the worst possible interpretations of the things she said.
She couldn’t help it if she’d been surprised—oh, very well, scandalized—to see a young female, and a respectable-looking one, at that, smoking a cigarette. Everything Amy had ever been taught told her that smoking was a masculine pastime and not one to be indulged in by women. In Pasadena, even men who smoked cigarettes were looked upon with disapproval unless they were otherwise judged worthy citizens. For some reason, cigars and pipes weren’t looked upon with such intense disapproval. In men. No amount of good works, in Pasadena, could ever nullify the evil of smoking in a woman.
Why, the minister at the First Presbyterian Church in Pasadena, to which church Amy went every Sunday of her life, had as much as said that females who smoked were going straight to hell. Amy hadn’t said it; a minister of the Gospel had said it. So there.
So why did she now feel as if she’d been wrong to disclose her shock?
Nobody’d asked her for her opinion, Charlie Fox had told her. Humph. Horrid man. He’d asked her what was wrong and she’d told him. Then he’d as much as told her that she was a stiff-necked, judgmental fusspot. Anyhow, where would the world be if it depended on people being asked before they told other people what they thought?
That didn’t make sense even to herself, and she was frowning at it and trying to reconfigure it when Martin’s voice dragged her out of the dumps.
“Miss Wilkes,” he said, “please let me introduce you to Miss Karen Crenshaw. Miss Crenshaw is Madame Dunbar’s assistant, and has been more than helpful to our cast members for some time now.”
Looking up, for her eyes had been downcast and focused on the ground while her brain had toiled with her discomposure, Amy discovered herself staring straight into the face of the woman who’d been smoking. She felt herself blush. Fiddle!
Miss Crenshaw curtsied prettily. Not having anticipated such a courtesy from a woman who smoked cigarettes, Amy stuttered, “Oh! Oh, well, I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Crenshaw.” Heavenly days, Amy was accustomed to curtsying to her uncle’s inmates. She couldn’t recall ever having been curtsied to, herself.
“Likewise,” said Miss Crenshaw, gazing at her askance, as if she didn’t understand why Amy was rattled.
Why should she? Amy asked herself bitterly.
Because Charlie’s words seemed to be ringing in her ears and scoffing at her, Amy held out her hand. “It’s so good of you to do this, Miss Crenshaw.”
Miss Crenshaw transferred her puzzled gaze to Amy’s hand and held it there for a moment before taking the hand in her own and shaking it. Martin cleared his throat behind her, and Amy feared she’d made a fool of herself. Again.<
br />
Well, that was just too bad. She lifted her chin, determined to maintain her good manners no matter what. She was no better than Miss Crenshaw—even though Miss Crenshaw did smoke cigarettes—and she wouldn’t try to pretend that she was, as she’d read some moving picture actresses did. Amy, too, had to work for a living. Until she’d met Mr. Tafft, she’d done it at her uncle’s health spa. Now she was supposed to be acting. All things considered, Amy wished she’d stayed in Pasadena and refused this offer.
But that was how quitters talked, she lectured herself sternly. She was a Wilkes, and Wilkeses didn’t quit. They fulfilled their promises and finished their jobs. Then they quit.
Very well. She would do her job. She smiled at Martin. “Thank you, Mr. Tafft.”
Beaming and rubbing his hands together, Martin said, “Certainly, certainly. I’m sure you two will get along just fine. I—er—had better check up on some things.”
Horace Huxtable, unless Amy missed her guess. She managed not to wrinkle her nose and purse up her lips, and was proud of herself.
After he’d left the tent, Miss Crenshaw went to the flap and tied it. With a smile for Amy, she said, “Don’t want anybody waltzing in while you’re in your knickers and chemise, do we?”
Horrified, Amy cried, “Good heavens, no!”
Fiddle! She knew she’d misspoken when Miss Crenshaw lifted her eyebrows and said, “There’s no need to carry on. The Flap’s tied shut.”
Oh, dear, now she thinks I’m a prig, too. Amy was beginning to get awfully discouraged. Miss Crenshaw had lovely eyes, Amy noticed—probably because they were opened so wide. Big and pansy brown. Amy would wager that Charlie Fox would consider Miss Crenshaw quite pretty. That made her feel even more discouraged.
With a sigh, she said, “I beg your pardon, Miss Crenshaw. I didn’t mean to speak so loudly.”
“Nonsense, don’t even think about it.” Miss Crenshaw flipped Amy’s apology away with her hand. “But let’s get you undressed now so we can try on your costume for the first scene. I hope you’ll like it.”
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